Flashing me a loaded stink eye, the soldier finally loosens the magical green ropes, allowing me to wiggle my arms back along my sides. I stretch my fingers, then my neck, all my bones clicking as the tension releases from my body.
Just as I think Lastra may be removing them altogether, his vines snake around my wrists and pin them together. I take comfort in the fact that not only are my shoulders no longer wedged back, but I’ve access to my fingers. Now to prick them and test Justus’s nifty little sigil . . .
“Please inform His Majesty that if he cares for an audience, he will have to come to me.” Cato approaches the cellar door behind which Lastra is still standing, fingers laced in sparkling green flickers that match the shade of his narrowed eyes. “Otherwise, I will go to him as soon as Justus returns.”
He nods, then mutters a, “Be careful, Sergente.”
After he leaves, I look up at the sprites buzzing about the cellar, beady eyes tapered on me as though I were a vile marsh creature. I’ve no doubt I look like one, what with all the gore staining my dress and collarbone. “Any chance you two could fetch me a washcloth and a change of clothes?”
“No,” they answer as one.
“Are you afraid I may strangle you with them?” I ask sweetly.
“Just go get her what she needs.” Cato sounds as bedraggled as he looks.
They toss pin-sized glowers his way.
“Did my command not reach your ears, sprites?”
I school the smile from my lips when they both jerk their heads in assent.
Right before they buzz off, I call out, “A soldier’s uniform preferably! I like pants.”
I’m not certain whether they heard me, but Cato certainly did because he balks as though I’ve just suggested the sprites take a swim in Mareluce to hand-feed the serpents. “Regio won’t approve of a soldier’s uniform.”
I want to tell Cato that he can shove Regio’s opinion of my clothing where the sun doesn’t shine, which is basically everywhere, but I bite back my retort since it’ll only get Cato in trouble, and that’s the last thing I want.
As he unbinds his white hair to redo his mussed plait, my mind fills with the memory of Justus’s key sigil. Although its shape was barely discernable, what with the dusky lighting in this glorified anthill, I can still picture the path his finger took, as well as the gleam of Meriam’s blood on the black backdrop.
As I turn the image over in my mind’s eye, my stomach growls.
The sound must reach Cato’s broad ears because he peeks at my abdomen before shifting his gaze to the gate. “I’ll have the sprites bring you something to eat when they return. Hopefully, they’ll be able to ferret something through the door.”
As he studies it, measuring the width between the bars, I lift my bound hands to my mouth and press the tip of my index finger against my pointiest tooth.
“What are you doing?” Cato’s question startles my hand out of my mouth.
I make a show of picking something from my teeth. “Somfen stook.”
It takes Cato a second to parse out my garbled words. When he does, one of his eyebrows slants low. “Really?”
“I don’t know.” I make a great show of running my tongue against my teeth. “You wouldn’t happen to have a toothbrush laying around?”
“I’ll ask the sprites once they return.” After that, his stare doesn’t return to the door. It stays on me.
Though I understand his distrust, it hurts a little. I amble around the cellar that’s larger than my little house in Tarelexo, seeking out something pointy to jab my finger on. The stone shelves are so smooth they gleam like oil spills, not a jagged point in sight.
Glass shards it will have to be, then.
“Don’t touch the wine, Fallon.”
“I’m not planning on drinking it.” When he slants me a look, I add, “Or smashing it on your head.”
“I hadn’t even considered the second option, but really don’t touch anything. I could get in trouble if bottles go missing from the cellar.”
Since he’s on the other side of the room, I wriggle a dust-coated bottle from a shelf and gawp at the Lucin crown emblem stamped on the gold wax seal that was dripped over the cork. “This was Costa Regio’s stash?”
The peeling, yellowed label reads a date that is so far in the past, it knocks my gaze toward the rest of the bottles. Vintages like these would sell for small fortunes—not coppers or silvers but gold. To think that when I smashed my cage, I took out at least two dozen bottles.
